Chapter 1

Layla

The "Welcome to Bayhaven" sign still sports the same peeling paint and bullet hole from when Tommy Matthews thought target practice was a civic duty. Some things never change. Others change too much.

I pull my Honda into the gravel driveway of my childhood home, cold dust clouds billowing like tiny tornadoes in my rearview mirror. The house looks smaller than I remember—white clapboard siding that needs a fresh coat, wraparound porch sagging slightly on the left side where Dad keeps promising to fix the support beam. Mama's flower boxes overflow with petunias and something that could be oregano. Or weeds. Hard to tell from here.

My phone buzzes with another text from Max. The third one since I crossed the county line. Can we talk? I miss you.

"Miss me like a hole in the head," I mutter, switching the phone to silent.

The screen door creaks open before I've even turned off the engine. Mama appears on the porch, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron—the one with "Kiss the Cook" embroidered in crooked letters that I made her in seventh-grade home ec.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in." Her smile reaches her eyes despite the sarcasm. "You planning to sit in that car all day, or are you coming inside to tell me why my daughter looks like she's been through a blender?"

I grab my purse and the bag of Chicago deep-dish I picked up as a peace offering. "Nice to see you too, Mama."

"Don't 'nice to see you' me, Layla Marie. You quit your job, broke up with what's-his-face, and moved back home without so much as a phone call." She crosses her arms, but the corner of her mouth twitches. "Lucky for you, I made cornbread."

"Max wasn't that forgettable." Though honestly, his tendency to disappear into work for weeks at a time made him plenty frustrating. "And I called. Last Tuesday."

"A five-minute conversation about the weather doesn't count." Mama steps aside to let me pass. "Come on. Your father's in the workshop pretending he doesn't know you're here, but he's been pacing for the last hour."

The familiar scent of vanilla and wood polish wraps around me as I cross the threshold. Everything exactly where it belongs—Mama's piano in the corner, Dad's reading chair by the window, family photos marching up the staircase like soldiers in matching frames. The only thing missing is the restless energy that used to bounce off these walls whenever I lived here.

"So." Mama closes the door behind me. "How long are we talking? A visit, or should I clear out the spare room?"

"Not sure at this point." I shift the deep-dish box to my other arm. "Depends on how long it takes me to remember why I left in the first place."

Mama's eyebrow arches. "Or how long it takes you to remember why you came back."

"Same thing, probably." I lean over to kiss her cheek, breathing in her familiar scent of lavender soap and kitchen spices. "I'll set up in my old room for now. Give me a chance to figure out what comes next."

"That room's been waiting for you." Her hand squeezes my shoulder. "Go on up. I'll bring you some sweet tea in a bit."

Two trips to the car later, I'm hauling my laptop bag and a suitcase that weighs more than my first apartment's security deposit up the narrow staircase. The wooden steps still creak in all the same places—third from the bottom, seventh from the top, and that one near the landing that sounds like a dying cat if you step wrong.

My bedroom door sticks the way it always did, requiring that specific lift-and-push technique I mastered in high school. The room floods with afternoon light when I finally wrestle it open. Nothing's changed. Same quilt Grandma Jean pieced together from fabric scraps. Same desk where I wrote terrible poetry about boys who didn't deserve the ink. Same window seat overlooking the harbor.

The view stops me cold.

Bayhaven's harbor spreads below like a postcard, all weathered docks and bobbing sailboats. But it's the Christmas lights that twist something sharp in my chest. They string between lampposts and wrap around pier railings, turning the waterfront into a constellation of red and gold. The same lights that were up last year when everything went sideways.

When Cole's mouth found mine at midnight and the world tilted off its axis.

I drop my suitcase forcefully. The lights probably went up the day after Thanksgiving, same as every year. Probably strung by the same volunteer committee of retirees who've been doing it since I was in diapers. Nothing romantic or magical about municipal holiday decorating.

But tell that to my racing pulse.

"Get a grip, Layla." I turn away from the window, focusing on unpacking instead of the memory of hands tangled in my hair and the taste of whiskey on someone's lips who should have known better.

Someone who definitely knew better now.

The kitchen smells like heaven and childhood memories—cornbread cooling on a wire rack, something savory bubbling in the slow cooker, and that perpetual hint of cinnamon that seems baked into the walls themselves. Mama bustles around, pulling down mismatched glasses and filling them with sweet tea that could dissolve concrete.

"So," she says, sliding a glass across the scarred wooden table, "Maggie Henley called this morning."

I settle into my old chair, the one with the wobbly leg that Dad keeps threatening to fix. "Should I be worried?"

"Depends on how you feel about community service." Mama's smile turns suspiciously innocent. "The toy drive needs a volunteer coordinator. Someone with stellar organizational skills and a background in event planning."

"I did graphic design marketing, not miracles." I take a sip of tea that's roughly seventy percent sugar. Some things never change, thank God. "Besides, I just got back. Haven't even unpacked."

"Perfect timing, then. Nothing like jumping into the deep end to remember why you love swimming." Mama pulls a manila folder from the kitchen counter, thick with papers and held together by a rubber band that's seen better decades. "Maggie's been running it for fifteen years, but her hip replacement surgery is next week."

"And naturally, you volunteered your not-yet-employed daughter."

"I volunteered my talented daughter who happens to be between opportunities." She drops the folder in front of me with a thud. "Besides, it's only three weeks until Christmas. How hard could it be?"

Famous last words. I flip open the folder and immediately understand why Maggie needs hip surgery—probably from carrying this organizational nightmare around. Hand-written lists in three different colors of ink, photocopied flyers with coffee stains, and what appears to be a roster written on the back of a grocery receipt.

"Mama, this looks like a tornado hit a filing cabinet."

"Which is exactly why they need someone with your skillset." She sits across from me, folding her hands like this conversation is already settled. "Maggie means well, but she's been doing everything the same way since Reagan was president."

I scan the volunteer roster, squinting at the spider-web handwriting. Most of the names blur together—retired teachers, church ladies, the usual suspects who sign up for everything. But one name jumps out like a neon sign in a blackout.

Cole Hartman - Financial Sponsor

My tea glass hits the table harder than intended. "He's involved in this?"

"Cole?" Mama's eyebrows lift with practiced innocence. "Of course. He's been the primary sponsor for years. Covers most of the big-ticket items—bikes, electronics, winter coats. Real generous, that one."

"Generous." The word tastes bitter. "Sure."

"Something wrong with that?"

Everything. Everything is wrong with that. But I can't exactly explain to my mother that her husband's best friend kissed me senseless months ago and then vanished like smoke, leaving me to wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing.

"Just surprised, that's all. Didn't know he was the charitable type."

"Honey, you've been gone five years, only coming back a handful of times since then. People change." Mama reaches across to pat my hand. "Cole's had his share of troubles, but he's never stopped caring about this community."

I flip through more pages, hoping my face doesn't betray the riot happening in my chest. Donation records show substantial contributions year after year, all signed with the same strong handwriting I remember from birthday cards when I was little. Before everything got complicated.

"So what do you say?" Mama's voice pulls me back to the present. "Will you help out?"

The smart answer is no. The sensible answer is no. The answer that keeps my life uncomplicated and my heart intact is definitely no.

"Fine." The word escapes before I’m able to stop it. "But I'm modernizing this whole operation. Spreadsheets, proper scheduling, maybe even a website if I'm feeling ambitious."

Mama's smile could power the Christmas lights outside. "I knew I raised you right."

I stare at Cole's name until the letters blur together, my jaw clenching so hard my molars ache. Financial Sponsor. Two innocent words that shouldn't make my stomach perform Olympic-level gymnastics, but here we are.

"How much are we talking about?" The question comes out before I can help it.

Mama glances up from refilling the cornbread basket. "How much what?"

"His contribution. Cole's." I tap the paper forcefully. "For planning purposes. Budget allocation and all that."

"Oh, honey, I don't know the exact figures. Maggie handles all that." She waves dismissively. "But it's substantial. Probably covers half the drive's expenses."

Half. Of course it does. Because Cole Hartman can't do anything halfway—not success, not grief, and apparently not charity work either. The man who built Bayhaven's most successful construction company from nothing, who could probably buy half the town if he wanted, naturally throws money at Christmas like it's pocket change.

The same man who kissed me like the whole world was ending and then disappeared for an entire year.

"Layla?" Mama's voice carries that particular note mothers use when they've asked a question twice. "Are you still with me?"

"Sorry, just..." I flip to another page, hoping to find something less emotionally devastating than Cole's perfect penmanship. "Processing the scope of this thing."

More names swim past—Betty Walsh, the Hendersons, old Mrs. Martinez who still brings homemade tamales to every community event. Normal people doing normal good deeds. Not complicated men with storm-gray eyes who taste like regret and whiskey.

"You know," Mama settles back into her chair, "Cole's been asking about you."

My hand stills on the page. "Asking what?"

"How you're doing in Chicago. Whether you're happy up there. General things." Her tone stays carefully neutral, but I catch the subtle probing underneath. "Seemed genuinely interested in your work."

"I'm sure he was just being polite." The words taste like sawdust. "Dad probably mentioned my promotion or something."

"Maybe." Mama sips her tea thoughtfully. "Though he did ask specifically about whether you were seeing anyone."

The folder slips from my fingers, papers scattering across the table like autumn leaves. I scramble to gather them, blood rushing to my cheeks. "When did this conversation happen?"

"Few months back. Fourth of July barbecue." She helps collect the wayward volunteer schedules. "He looked like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it."

Of course he did. Cole Hartman, master of thinking better of things. Especially things involving me.

"Well, lucky for him, the answer's simple now." I straighten the papers with sharp, efficient movements. "Single and unemployed. The American dream."

"Layla Marie."

"What? It's true." I stuff everything back into the folder. "Besides, it doesn't matter what Cole Hartman thinks about my relationship status. We're talking about a toy drive, not a dating service."

Mama's knowing smile makes me want to hide under the table. "Who said anything about dating?"

No one said anything. And I might have just blown my cover.